


Rainy Day

by SleepingReader



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 15:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11188470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepingReader/pseuds/SleepingReader
Summary: A story I wrote following a prompt from Tumblr user hodgesaaargh .Prompt: “Bus travels through time and a little old lady saves the day.” Hope you enjoy it!





	Rainy Day

Your music streams through your headphones as you step onto the bus. It’s not your favourite song, nor your second favourite. But it’s OK. It’s a rather sad song and you only know half the words, but there are memories attached to it. A lover, a lost friend, a hobby, long forgotten and rusty. It’s raining. You rest your head against the windowpane as the bus drives onward. It’s as in those sad movies. A long bus drive or road trip, where the main character does nothing except for staring out the window, looking at the wet earth and smelling the inside of the moving vehicle, which smells like wet raincoats and umbrellas. You catch the reflection of the other window. No one knows exactly how this works, but the house in the reflection is the house on the other side of the bus. It’s there, and over in a flash, as the bus hits a big bump. You keep looking out of the window, and see another reflection, quick as lightning, but there anyway. It’s an old well. A woman is getting breaking the ice on the well, watched closely by a white goose. It’s not raining on the other side of the bus. It’s snowing, and you see that it stays on the ground. You look across, out of the window on the other side. It’s raining there. There are houses, a new flat. But no well. No woman. And no goose.

“Congratulations, you are in the only bus that offers a glimpse of the past as it drives through its round.”  
Sorry, you didn’t see me yet, did you? I have just come on the bus, and am sitting next to you. My green-checked umbrella is dripping with rain, and my hair is wet. Sorry for dripping on your backpack. Lucky you got the waterproof one, right? You stare at me. I look back and grin. You take out one earphone. A sign of respect, in this society. 

“The well is real?” You ask. 

“Yes,” I tell you, “It was. It’s a strange sort of bus, this one.” I reply.

You seem intrigued, no doubt you don’t really believe me yet, but I and my story are certainly much more amusing than the sad love song that goes through your earphones.  
“Please tell me more” You say, putting your music on pause and taking out both your earphones.  
Wow. I’m impressed. I must be much more interesting than your day has been so far. So I tell you the story. After all, you did say please.

‘About ten years ago, this bus was somewhat of a specialty. You know, in the “Ride Through History On This Magic Bus” sort of thing. Everyone thought it was just holograms, the things they saw in the reflections. They were almost right. Science was involved, but somewhat more complicated. History and present is kind of muddled in this town, so it was rather easy for a team of scientist to break the small barrier and make a History Bus. Pay some extra money and Ride The Magic Bus. Kids loved it, and since it offered a good history trip, schools rented it sometimes. I think it was the kids that did something. The bus hasn’t been the same since Class 4B travelled in it. It’s the sort of class where you put troublemakers after they’ve been through 3 teachers already. Ruled by a strict teacher, the class is kept quite short.   
Sadly, because of an accident involving the teachers fiancée, a toothbrush and an Chinese TakeAway restaurant, the teacher was unable to come on the field trip. That left the authority of Class 4B to the 5A teacher, who was a kind old fellow, who didn’t care what the kids got up to as long as they didn’t murder each other, him, or the class pet. The kids, of course, took this as an invitation to all but destroy the whole bus. Sadly, they targeted the machine that allows the reflections to change, and no one bothered to check the machine after the school trip was done and the bus was at the station.The next day, the bus was scheduled for a little village just out of town. And it did arrive, only in the same village about 5.000 years ago.‘

I tell you the story, how the bus driver had panicked, stopped the bus and had ran off, only to be killed on sight by a soldier that was a little on edge. I tell you how the passengers were all frightened, this time no children on a school trip, but normal people with normal lives and loves, some of who didn’t even know about the bus but just wanted to go to the little village. I tell you about the enormous argument that broke out between the passengers, as they all tried to be in charge.  And I tell you about Ethel Robertson, 87, the eldest passenger, who hit the two men already locked in a fist fight with her handbag. I tell you about Ethel Robertson, who fed the entire bus dry biscuits to keep them silent, for, in her opinion, no man can produce enough saliva to yell when he has a dry biscuit to swallow. I tell you about Ethel Robertson, who asked around for a mechanic, and found one, and set him immediately to work on the History Machine. I tell you about Ethel Robertson, who had just had her drivers licence extended, and who turned the bus around and drove it back into the future. Ethel Robertson, who now has a small and forgotten plaque on a building no one remembers.

‘Ethel saved many lives that day. She got a shiny medal from the mayor when she got back and word got out. She was very happy about that, I hear. But, of course, the bus line got stopped. The History Machine was forgotten, and now hangs abandoned under the emergency brake. But sometimes, when the bus hits a large bump, you can still catch a glimpse of the past.’

You have been listening to my story, your eyes like the eyes of a child that has discovered a brand new hiding place in their house. I don’t think you believe me, but what a story it will be to tell your naïve friend, your little sibling or a friend-of-a-friend at a party. The story about how a stranger sat next to you, dripped rain all over your bag and claimed that the bus you were in was linked to the past. Maybe they’ll even believe you.

But here’s my stop. I pick up my umbrella and say goodbye. The door opens and shuts, a strong breeze carrying the smell of rain into the bus. You shake your head, like a pony trying to get rid of a nasty fly. You see me in the reflection. 

I’m standing at the bus stop, looking at the map. The bus hits a bump. You still see me in the reflection, now looking at a signpost, as the background is different and snows cover the lands of long ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like it! Comments? Questions? Leave a note!


End file.
